Blood, sweat, tears, and..shit, basically.

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Of cynics and tomorrows.

Funny though, in a room full of cynics, you’d have expected that most of these people would have seen it coming. The meetings are starting to become a routine. Tonight is 18’s turn to speak.

She will stand at the podium and tell us about how the world has gone to shit, and how she would have liked the world to be, if it were up to her. A room full of cynics, and not one person whole enough to chase dreams. We are all broken. Disappointed.

The debt ceiling of faith has been raised. Deeper into the darkness, we all start to wonder if ever there was any good at all in this thing we used to call ‘humanity’. 18 begins by telling us about culture and how it is near dead.

Wandering eyes that belong to cynical minds scrutinize every corner of the room, perpetually searching for something to pour their disdain upon..and there it was. There, she said it. Tonight’s the night.

Tonight, words would no longer fall on deaf ears, of cynical minds.

Listen to me, she says. We can change things, we, can be a part of something new. Seconds after she completes her sentence, the cynics burst into satirical laughter. She’s not one of them, clearly.

She frowns and sits on the stage, overwhelmed with embarrassment and hopelessness. A room full of cynics, and not one person sufficiently socially adequate to sense hurt in a woman.

She crumbles and forsakes her dreams. Tonight, another cynic walks the streets. A room, full of cynics and across the street, the cafe of broken dreams.